


put away your good words / and your bad words

by narrativefoiltrope



Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: (it's after the bakery scene--you know the one), Angst, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Unresolved Tension, book 3 demo spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:00:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27959567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narrativefoiltrope/pseuds/narrativefoiltrope
Summary: the emotional fall-out after *that* comment in the bakery, and the first meeting between detective winter collins and mason afterwards.
Relationships: Detective/Mason (The Wayhaven Chronicles), Female Detective/Mason (The Wayhaven Chronicles)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 35





	put away your good words / and your bad words

She had grown smaller, her tall frame bending closer to the floor. Curling inward as if to shield herself from— 

She didn’t need to think about that now, no; she had spent every waking moment of the last six days analysing, assessing, obsessing, and had decided that it was her fault. Her fault for thinking that his actions indicated anything other than his words had told her. Her fault for thinking (hoping, wishing, wanting) anyone—especially someone like him, _especially_ him—would choose her when nobody else had ever done so.

No, Winter did not blame Mason in the slightest.

He had always told her he didn’t want anything other than sex, just like she had always told him she didn’t want anything other than everything. At least they’d always been honest with one another.

Until the bakery, that is.

There was a part of her that didn’t think he had been fully truthful in making that statement. His mouth had turned down in an expression of possible regret that she hadn’t seen before and he couldn’t look at her afterwards, though he’d never previously had an issue staring her down after challenging her or making an otherwise snarky comment. And she swore she heard him following her out, though she didn’t—couldn’t—look back to see him. Winter wanted to hope that he didn’t mean it, but a lifetime of living with Rebecca had taught her not to hope for much in any relationship—especially ones that weren’t even real.

In any case, she was willing to take the blame. She was used to it. She welcomed such a familiar weight; there was an Atlas-esque comfort in it. Mason may have made things lighter for her for a while, shouldering some of her worries and dismissing many others, but this was her status quo. She had carried the world before and she could carry it again, she hoped. The strain in her chest, however, implied otherwise, as did the mortifying tears in her eyes that appeared when she thought about their last conversation for too long.

Winter sighed as she packed up her bag to go home. She wondered if Adam would be her escort again tonight; over the last six days, he, Nate, and Felix had taken turns in rotation getting her to and from work, all on high alert because of the bounty on her head. None of them had mentioned Mason and she didn’t ask about him.

She felt a presence in her doorway and looked up from her desk.

Familiar grey eyes met hers and the floor fell out from under her, stealing her breath and launching her heart into her throat.

For a long moment, neither of them said anything. They stared at each other, expressions guarded and unreadable; both were unwilling to look away but equally unwilling to stay locked in what was quickly becoming a staring contest.

Winter snapped out of it first when she realised how uncomfortable Mason must have been. She cleared her throat and smoothed a hand over her hair before giving him a small smile. His brows creased and his eyes narrowed, taken aback once again by her reaction.

“I…wasn’t expecting you, but I’m glad you’re here,” she said quietly.

He scoffed. “That so?”

“Yes.” It was true though she wished it wasn’t; she _was_ glad to see him. Maybe it was a happiness akin to that of a condemned man seeing his executioner—anticipation finally abated, the killing blow so close and nothing left to fear—but happiness nonetheless.

Mason shifted his weight in a movement that looked uncharacteristically uncomfortable, almost awkward. He looked at her hard, eyes stormy, before turning away. “Yeah well hurry up and let’s go, sweet—”

They froze again, neither daring to move or speak. The almost use of his nickname for her landed like a knife between her ribs, a caress at the first syllable and a sharp pain hearing it cut short, cutting into her.

Winter did what she always did when faced with a hurtful situation: She smiled. Of course, she could tell that it was a strained smile, one that revealed more than it masked despite her intentions—she never could lie well, even in silence—but she didn’t want Mason to feel unsettled around her. She still wanted him to know that he was safe with her. When he finally risked looking at her, Mason once again searched her face before he settled into a confused frown and crossed his arms over his chest.

She hoisted her bag over her shoulder and walked over to the door. Winter hadn’t driven to work and she directed them to the now-familiar path they had walked in the spring, enjoying the cooling weather. Without thinking, she drifted close to him as they headed towards her apartment; Mason didn’t pull away from her, but he gave her yet another questioning look, this one angrier than the last.

Clearly her plan to put him at ease was not working. It was time to try a different approach.

She began talking aimlessly in a futile attempt to distract him—and herself—from the mounting tension between them. “The weather this week has been so strange, hasn’t it? Usually we would have a thunderstorm by now to break this humidity but the sky has been so clear, it’s very pretty at least—oh, but I guess that would be uncomfortable for you—”

He whirled on her at that, stepping in front of her in a movement too fast for her to see and bringing her to a halt. “Are you fucking kidding me?” His eyes were as dark and threatening as the storm she so inanely brought up.

“I—no? I’m sorry for not thinking about how you—”

“Winter. Cut the crap,” he growled. Mason ran a hand through his hair in a rougher movement than usual; she wondered whether it hurt him. “I was an ass the last time I saw you, and you’re trying to make _me_ feel better?”

She bit her lip. “Mason, it’s fine—”

“It’s not fucking _fine,_ sweetheart.” Her pet name was back, but dripping in venom—though not directed at her, she noted. “Get angry for once.”

Winter wasn’t angry, though; it would have been so much easier if she had been. “But I’m not mad at you.”

That comment only made _him_ angrier. “You should be.” He paused for a moment and looked away from her.

She ached for him. She wanted to reach out, to touch him, to let him know it was—not okay, but it would be. His tightly coiled posture stopped her; he wouldn’t accept her physical reassurance just like he hadn’t accepted her verbal one, not yet.

When Mason looked at her again, there was a hard glint in his eyes. He stepped closer to her and challenged, “Say something horrible about me.”

“What?”

“I said something fucking awful about you. You say something fucking awful about me. We move on.”

He was serious. He was trying to bait her. If she was angry, it might have worked; as it was, though—and as she was—Winter was too busy reassembling her heart to yell at him. She didn’t want to.

She took a step back from him. When she spoke, it was quiet, but firm. “Mason, I would never say something horrible about you. Not in public and not to you.”

Winter saw that same downturn of his mouth she had seen in the bakery and watched as his shoulders sank—only barely, only noticeable because she had spent so much time studying him. She stepped around him—carefully, slowly—and kept walking.

This time, she did look back.

This time, she saw him follow. 

Winter waited for him. It felt like a year before he came to stand next to her, her heart in her throat the entire time. She (tentatively, lightly) took hold of his arm and draped it around her shoulders, keeping a hold on his hand. He let her. They each relaxed at the contact--an apology, an acceptance, voiced in a language they knew, one that was much safer than words. 

It wasn’t okay, but it would be.

**Author's Note:**

> this is by no means what i think will happen in the actual book since i am leaning heavily into winter and mason's specific dynamic, but i wanted to explore what it looked like for my very soft detective to implode after that scene (in which she did not kiss him, and has never kissed him). the title comes from anne sexton's poem "from the garden."


End file.
